But she to-morrow will return; Let us to-morrow's blessings own: THE DOVE. Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ ?-VIRG. 1 IN Virgil's sacred verse we find, 2 But if they should, what our great master Has thus laid down, my tale shall prove; Fair Venus wept the sad disaster Of having lost her favourite Dove. 3 In complaisance poor Cupid mourned; 4 Though none, said he, shall yet be named, 5 With that, his longest dart he took, As constable would take his staff; That gods desire like men to look, 6 Love's subalterns, a duteous band, Like watchmen round their chief appear: Each had his lantern in his hand: And Venus masked brought up the rear. 7 Accoutred thus, their eager step To Cloe's lodging they directed: (At once I write, alas! and weep, That Cloe is of theft suspected.) 8 Late they set out, had far to go: St Dunstan's, as they passed, struck one. Clöe, for reasons good, you know, Lives at the sober end of the town. 9 With one great peal they rap the door, Folks at her house at such an hour! 10 The door is open: up they run: Nor prayers, nor threats divert their speed: Thieves! thieves! cries Susan; we're undone; They'll kill my mistress in her bed. 11 In bed indeed the nymph had been 12 She waked, be sure, with strange surprise, Thus to disturb the brightest eyes, 13 Have you observed a sitting hare, 14 Or have you marked a partridge quake, 15 Then have you seen the beauteous maid; 16 Venus this while was in the chamber It smelt so strong of myrrh and amber- 17 But since we have no present need Of Venus for an episode, With Cupid let us e'en proceed; And thus to Cloe spoke the god: 18 Hold up your head: hold up your hand: Would it were not my lot to show ye This cruel writ, wherein you stand Indicted by the name of Cloe: 19 For that by secret malice stirred, Or by an emulous pride invited, You have purloined the favourite bird 20 Her blushing face the lovely maid Raised just above the milk-white sheet, Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet. 21 Are you not he whom virgins fear, And widows court? is not your name 22 Then what have I, good Sir, to say, 23 Diana chaste, and Hebe sweet, Witness that what I speak is true: For all the Doves that ever flew. 24 Yet, to compose this midnight noise, 25 Her keys he takes, her doors unlocks; Through wardrobe, and through closet bounces; Peeps into every chest and box, Turns all her furbelows and flounces. 26 But Dove, depend on 't, finds he none; So to the bed returns again; And now the maiden, bolder grown, 27 I marvel much, she smiling said, Your poultry cannot yet be found; Or may be, in the tea-pot drowned! 28 No, traitress, angry Love replies, He's hid somewhere about your breast; 29 Search then, she said, put in your hand, Do thou, or punish, or reward me. 30 But ah! what maid to Love can trust; He scorns, and breaks all legal power; Into her breast his hand he thrust; And in a moment forced it lower. 31 O, whither do those fingers rove, Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither? A LOVER'S ANGER. As Cloe came into the room t'other day, I peevish began; where so long could you stay? |